I'm sneaking outside on the weird little deck off my bedroom to write this. Shh.
A few years ago I put a little table on the deck so I could run away from my children and write during the summer. I finished a painful Camp NaNoWriMo on this deck, written in too quick, wildly unfocused bursts, and I've never looked at that miserable half-novel again, but I was living the dream: writing in the summer!
I still have one child at home, but she's seventeen, and I pretty much have to beg her to spend time with me these days. My own children aren't the writing obstacle anymore. Now my niece and nephew whose parents teach overseas come stay at my house for several weeks each summer - it's the only time I see them each year.
Summer means early morning board games, Lego building marathons, baking cupcakes, walking the dogs, water fights, and lots of talking. I can barely snag a few minutes to read, and I'm certainly not writing.
But I don't mind it one bit. My WIP will wait patiently for me to finish my Lego project.
The romantic version of summer loving has always proved to be a similarly unfulfilled dream. I just take summers off.